An Untitled Escapade
by ZeroHope2Survive
Summary: A strange girl has fallen from the sky and has impeded upon Tom's afternoon stroll. Whatever will he do? Tom Riddle/OC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I acknowledge fully that this needs a lot of revision. I'm a little out of it today, so if you catch anything that sounds off or find any poorly selected paragraph divisions, tell me about them, _please_. Actually, just critique your heart out upon it.

This will be the second Harry Potter fic I've posted, although I've taken the first one down because I've grown a lot as a writer since then and am a bit ashamed of it. This isn't the only Tom/OC story I've ever had a go at, but it is the first. After I read .everyonepanic.'s Reckless Abandonment, I thought I might do well to post one of my own Tom/OC stories.

I chose this one neither because the plot is the most developed nor because the OC is my favorite, but because it amuses me the most. With that said, please don't take this as a serious story. It's meant to be pointless and light-hearted. All the same, don't let me get away with letting Tom stray out of character. Right now, he's bound to be a little off center. That much is intentional since he's still 14 and I mean to ease him into his older incarnations as the story progresses. I want, in particular, to know if you think I've overshot my goal and made him too different.

I really haven't read the Harry Potter books. I've actually only seen the movies and invaded the wiki thoroughly enough to have acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of the series. So, as good as my intentions are, please chastise me for my errors and forgive me my ambition (and lengthy author's notes).

Without further ado, I present to you the first chapter of An Untitled Escapade (the title of which is sure to be subject to change).

**Chapter I:**

Tom hoisted himself up onto his knees, ignoring the particularly pained gurgle from his attacker as she rolled off of his back. Under his breath, he unleashed a muffled curse when he realized that his clothes had been muddied by the rain puddles on the pavement. And now he couldn't even use magic to clean them! What a right mess. He snapped his eyes toward whomever it was that had gotten the bright idea to plow him over.

It was a girl whose black hair was cut short and scruffily—he might have mistaken her for a boy were she not in a skirt. Her wrists were sheathed in wooden bangles and as she moved, they clacked together. When she stood, Tom watched her bitterly. She paused briefly and murmured irritably, probably bellyaching over the state of her clothes. Tom didn't blame her. It was then that she turned and looked down at him with a grimace.

Tom allowed his mouth to hang dumbly open.

The girl was an eyeful, but not because of her beauty. That is not to say that she couldn't have been pretty. She might even have been a lovely sight, but it made no difference. All of the best features on her face, unremarkable or otherwise, could not compete for attention with the abnormality that had brought Tom—ever charming and well-mannered Tom—down to the level of the common gaping fish. It was her eyes, strangest of all eyes. The right was a deep oceanic blue which, at its darkest tones, was fathomless like the inky blanket of the night sky and at its lightest, paralyzing like an arctic frost. The left was an ecstatic and wild honeycomb gold, hot and thick like a molten cauldron of felix felicis, but rigid and starchy like kernels of maize.

The girl blanched then, turned, and started to run, but Tom, free from the captivatingly bizarre spectacle, regained enough wit to reach out and seize her wrist. She tugged once, but was fast to give in.

Tom frowned at her and borrowed her unoffered hand to help himself stand. It was a full six seconds before she turned back around and once again, projected the full force of her smoldering eyes upon him. He was unaffected, this time. Her odd-eyed semblance was about as potently shocking as a played-out circus act. With the way she drew her lip into a snarl, it seemed she realized this.

"Who are you?" Tom asked sternly, not wanting her to think for a second that he would let her rudeness escape his attention.

"Nyx," said the girl after a second, glancing at the bony white hand which had wrapped itself completely around her wrist, somehow still not tight enough to be offensive. "It means 'night' in Greek."

"I know what it means," Tom replied, looking entirely insulted. He had been curious and the girl had indulged his curiosity wholeheartedly, but something about the way that _Nyx_ fell off of her lips sounded condescending to him. It sounded like a certain kind of lie—the kind that came from a practiced liar.

Nyx, clearly becoming impatient, tried experimentally to pry her hand from Tom's grip again and he allowed her to. He didn't really want to let her go now that she'd lied to him about something as simple as a name, but he also didn't want to give her any more reasons to lie. He thought he could coax the truth out of her with some carefully chosen words.

Nyx crossed her arms and began to tap her foot. The rain water which had so readily taken to her clothes dripped rhythmically from her hair and the hem of her skirt, putting ripples in the puddles beneath her. Even more droplets accumulated around the apparently impermeable black knit of her sweater.

Tom thought for a moment that all of this water might have been a symbol—a sign pointing to all of the answers to his questions about the girl, about the Chamber of Secrets, about his parents, humanity and life and hatred and the future and death; everything. But then he saw that her frown hadn't diminished and her stare hadn't left him. Following her gaze onto himself, he remembered that he, too, was sopping wet and knew that the water was no symbol—just an inconvenience. But why was she still staring?

"Well!" Nyx cried suddenly, dropping her arms to her sides, "Once is once, isn't it?"

_Oh_, Tom thought as a distasteful frown came to his face, _indeed it is_. He wondered why it had taken him so long to guess at her thoughts, supposing ultimately that he had hit his head harder than he initially thought and was still a bit dazed. It was, of course, _her_ fault for falling out of the bloody _sky_ like that.

"Terrance Michael Rivers, at your service." Tom wondered how it was that even when the opportunity for a name change presented itself, he had managed to choose a plain name, not much better than his real one and, much more disconcertingly, with all of the same initials. He thought he _had_ to have hit his head too hard. Either way, he was glad he still had enough sense not to feel proud that he had simultaneously played on her words and accused her by giving a false name. After all, neither of those things was any good to him if she didn't know that he'd done them.

"Really?" Nyx replied. Her expression appeared to have lightened, if only slightly, and she crossed her arms once again. Tom watched as her weight shifted onto her hip in what he thought was an arrogant gesture. With half-lidded eyes she looked him up and down appraisingly and then looked at her nails casually, as if to say "_you're nothing special_".

Tom thought then that it might be fun to dismember her, but then remembered that murder was frowned upon in wizard (and muggle) society, curiously enough despite its many appealing implications.

"Well," Nyx said then, losing interest in her nails, "If you're at my service as you say, Mr. Rivers, then perhaps you'd oblige an inquiry of mine."

Tom noticed that she hadn't asked it of him, nor had she commanded him to answer. Rather, she had suggested (albeit unsubtly) that it would be polite of him to help her out, even though she had yet to apologize for knocking him into the wet street and nearly crushing him under her weight. By the way she further forced her hip out, it was also clear that she was insinuating that this was _because she was a_ _girl_ and he was, naturally, a chivalrous young man who was expected to rescue her. This was, of course, an unspoken heap of bullocks, but behind it were many truths. For example, he could determine that this girl, Nyx, was bigheaded but also intelligent. Had she put her words any other way, she would have looked demanding or stupid, neither of which were good qualities for a person to have.

"And what is your inquiry?" Tom replied dull-wittedly, for he was busy trying to think of what she could be hiding behind that false name and of how he could get her to reveal it all to him.

"Well, I—" she seemed to be regretting her words then, apparently having not thought so far ahead (Tom retracted his theory about her intelligence, of course), "Where am I?"

She was looking at her shoes when Tom raised an eyebrow at her.

"You're in London," Tom replied with a slightly mocking tone. After all, she was right to think that it lowered her stature to be ignorant of her whereabouts—and that _was_ what she was thinking. It was evident on her face, which was (not surprisingly) of unexceptional beauty, now that Tom could better examine it.

"Yes, I know_ that_," she said, suddenly indignant. Her hands flew to her hips and she looked an awful lot like Mrs. Cole preparing to scold him for something. "But _where_ in London am I? And what's the time? And for heaven's sake, why is _wet_ everywhere? The sky was _clear_ this morning!" As if to highlight her frustration with the humidity, she batted at the light mist in the air and gave Tom a vexed look. He almost felt like she was pinning the blame on him. As if he could control the weather! And then he grimaced.

"You're joking," he said, with well-hidden suspicion only barely leaking through his eyes. "The rain hasn't let up since last night. I've only just gone out for a walk, in fact, to celebrate the sudden abatement."

He was, of course, lying. He would have gone out even if it were still raining—anything to not have to listen to those stupid muggles at the orphanage. It was in fact Martha's incessant inquiries that drove him out the door, but that was none of this strange girl's business and to say so wouldn't have served his purposes as well as the lie. In fact, it _had_ been raining since the previous night and Tom was sure that this was true for _all_ of London.

Nyx seemed taken aback and shook her head, immediately rejecting the possibility before it fully settled in, "It's been a dry summer. The sun was out only a minute ago and hardly a second ago, I was walking down Charing Cross Road, as happy as could be! And then—and then I fell and I—" she looked around as if desperately searching for a good way to word things. She eventually nodded and decided that "well, I landed on top of you," was the only way to say it.

Tom almost smiled, but opted instead to wrinkle his nose at her words. Each time she spoke, she slipped a little more. She was becoming increasingly panicked. Of course, anyone would panic if they suddenly fell into an alternate dimension, as this girl appeared to have done. And by the slowly settling candor in the creases between her brows, it almost looked as if she was considering whether or not he was trustworthy. She looked like her skin would peel away—like she would tell him all of her darkest secrets if he passed her test.

Eager to hear those secrets, Tom replayed her sputtered words in his head at least twice until something outstanding dawned on him.

"It's the middle of March," he pointed out in a manner so factual that it appeared to have left Nyx scandalized and a bit perturbed.

"How can it _possibly_ be mid-March?" she said, upon regaining her composure. "Today is the twenty-first of June, 2008. The skies _were_ clear this morning, and I _know_ I haven't been hallucinating."

Tom Riddle couldn't decide if he should be scared, offended or concerned. After hearing something as utterly preposterous as that, he figured he might as well do a back flip!

"You're horribly confused. It is _definitely_ the twenty-fourth of March, and it is _definitely not_ the year 2008."

"Yes it is!" Nyx objected stubbornly, "I know because I turned sixteen today, which I couldn't have done unless it were 2008!"

Tom almost cracked a grin as he replied, highly amused, "If you turn sixteen in 2008, then I am sixty-six years your elder and you haven't even been _born_ yet." She was either attempting to pull an elaborate prank, sharing a warped sense of humor or completely mental, of course, because Tom knew for an absolute fact that it was 1940 and he was fairly positive that it was Easter Sunday, unless that compulsory trip to church that Mrs. Cole had made him to endure was all for naught.

Nyx appeared to have been working Tom's calculations backwards in her head for a few minutes (indicating that she was a less capable mathematician) before she finally burst out with an uneasy laugh.

"That's impossible, for as you can see, I am quite alive and you can't possibly be more than a few years older than me," she reasoned, "I'm not that gullible, Mr. Rivers."

Tom finally did crack a grin. "Actually, if you _are_ sixteen, then you're older than me by almost two years. That must mean, of course, that one of us is either a compulsive liar or at least entirely cracked."

"And naturally, that would be you, Mr. Rivers," Nyx said immediately with narrowed eyes, as if she'd taken his comment as a confession.

"Ask anyone you want to and they'll confirm it. You'll probably get hauled off to a bedlam, too, if you keep insisting that you've come from a time sixty-eight years in the future," Tom guaranteed.

Nyx laughed a loud, exaggerated laugh and placed a hand on Tom's shoulder as if to steady herself, "No, no, sir, it is _you _for which the padded cell is reserved. What are you, a steam-punk fan-boy gone wrong? Look at your clothes—you're wearing _suspenders_."

Tom grimaced. "Well, I don't exactly fancy the idea of wearing my trousers around my ankles."

Nyx rolled her eyes and whatever joke she thought Tom was playing had clearly gone far enough in her opinion. "Well," she huffed, "I suppose you _are_ a bit bony. It's probably not a stretch to think you'd have a hard time keeping them up. After all, young girls like skinny boys these days, don't they? I'm not sure quite so many of them enjoy anachronisms, though." She paused to glare, no longer content to poke fun at his appearance. "Is this your hobby, Terrance Michael Rivers? Do you go around trying to further frighten the already frightened for _fun_? Am I at least the third person you've tried to mess with today? Because I swear to God and Buddha and—and—Bloody fucking _Merlin_ that if you're dicking around and giving me a difficult time on purpose, I'll—I'll—I'll…!"

Tom raised his eyebrows, unfazed, "you'll keep talking?"

Nyx looked like she was considering it for a minute, before she realized what exactly he'd said and snarled, "Yes. That is _exactly_ what I'll do. I'll follow you forever and never stop talking and when I die, I'll come back from the dead and haunt you until _you_ die and then I'll follow you to the afterlife and you will _never_ live in peace."

Tom dropped his eyebrows and then decided that the lamppost a few feet away was very intriguing compared to the current discussion and looked straight over Nyx's disheveled head to examine it, saying almost absentmindedly, "sorry, I'm not interested in married life."

He was more interested in knowing why she'd seen fit to lie about her name. She obviously didn't have much to hide, aside from a smidgen of insanity.

Nyx let out a long, angry growl, "You know what? _Fuck you_, _Rivers_. I shall find my own _fucking_ way home and we shall see who the bloody shit is _really_ cracked. And I'm still going to haunt you!"

Tom watched, somewhat frustrated himself, as Nyx stomped away, splashing water around with her feet and wrapping her arms around her body for warmth in the cold, wet Spring day.

He saw then that her shoes were striped and made of white rubber with an odd black fabric. There was a blue star on each of her heels along with some red letters. They were the oddest shoes he'd ever seen. It was as he acknowledged this that Nyx tripped, less over the curb then over her anger, let out a yelp and then rolled over into the gutter, motionless. Tom grumbled to himself.

"Bloody _hell_."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I'm surprised I have such positive reviews. Looking back, I find myself embarrassed at some of the parts from the last chapter, especially all of the rambling reasoning behind Tom's and Nyx's words and actions. I made it sound like Tom was fumbling to profile her, which strikes me as OOC.

Anyway, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. I thought I had a better grasp of what was happening in the story, but as time wore on I realized that my ideas were stupid and needed a better spin in order to stand out. So, without much further delay, here is chapter 2, in which Nyx becomes less of an enigma and more of an enigma at the same time.

By the way, I changed a little from the last chapter. Nyx's birthday is now in June and she has in fact just turned 16.

**Chapter II:**

You might think it was folly of Nyx to ever expect kindness from rudeness, or worse yet, assistance from threats. And you, whoever you are, would be absolutely right in your deductions. All the same, she at least expected better than being left on the roadside to drown in a filthy puddle with her face halfway squished into the sewer. That Terrance fellow, whether he was a gentleman or not, ought to have at least had the humanity and compassion to make sure she couldn't get run over by unobservant drivers.

_After all_, she seethed, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth, _I would have pulled _him_ out of the gutter_.

Her teeth chattered as she imagined his gaunt, sophisticated face with its snobbish little sneer. In a fierce puff of breath, she advanced into the mild fog down the street and amended to herself, _Probably_.

It wasn't until she reached the road's end that the irony of all her toils finally dawned upon her. The entire while, she had made a fool of herself—made a maddened lunatic out of herself—to poor, helpful (albeit overly cocky) Terrance. The embarrassment simply could not be fathomed, for, as it turned out, she had been on Charing Cross Road the entire time, not inches from the spot at which she initially stood. The difference was sixty-eight years of unmade changes, however, for according to the water-stained poster on the north-facing side of the last street light of the road, it was indeed 1940.

At that, Nyx broke down into a muddle of confusion, gloom and denial. But all around, the signs emerged to bring further certainty to a despairingly impossible truth. There were men in bowler hats with horrendous moustaches, all of them in suits and none of them in jeans. The dresses on display at all of the clothing shops fit the prescribed time period. The window of a dingy drug store across the street even displayed a notice encouraging young men to join the war against Germany.

And then, oh the horror, a black Buick Roadmaster of the oldest variety drove slowly down the road, raising a puny tidal wave of rain water as it passed. She blanched, only able to stand with the help of the green light post.

"Maybe I'm dreaming" she considered quietly, "I've had them as realistic as this before".

But as soon as she considered the possibility, she admitted that she was very wide awake and bit her lip. "Or maybe it's some sort of commemorative display in honor of World War II".

She doubted that, too. And so, with obligatory determination, Nyx squished her eyes shut and thought. She _had_ been walking down Charing Cross Road. It _was_ her birthday, and her mother hadn't come home as she had promised. She was angry. She was stomping and huffing. And then, there was a man in a long, billowing cloak, with a pointed hood. She had run into him and commented on the absurdity of his attire, and he had rounded on her and yelled something in Latin--something that, for all of her lessons, she hadn't had the presence of mind to translate. And then, there was a swirl of golden light and she was falling, ultimately belly flopping onto the shoulders of that dreadful cad, Terrance Michael Rivers.

Nyx gulped. Whatever the strange man had said to her (or at her, rather), she was sure it was the reason she had found herself in such a predicament. With dread, she turned around and leaned her back against the street lamp, sighing exhaustedly. Her eyes found the rickety form of a store, second from the corner and hardly noticeable in between the two, much more legitimate-looking establishments. The place seemed to have fallen into extreme disrepair and from the door there hung a sign that read, in a scrawling script, _The Leaky Cauldron_. It was a name she had seen before and it was the only place there that had existed on the Charing Cross Road that she knew and begrudgingly worked on. With a shiver, she pushed herself off of the chilled green pole and went forth to wrap a trembling hand around the doorknob of the somewhat familiar store, twisting it and pushing it open.

From within, there came a bursting swirl of warmth and the smell of tea and pinecones, which appealed very immediately to the wet, freezing, girl. She peeked her head in and instantly regretted having never gone into the store before. As cozy as it was then, it might have been thrice as welcoming in her time. As she stepped in, her leg brushed the wet hem of her skirt only once, and she gasped to find that as her foot hit the floor, her body dried completely, leaving her with a buzzing sensation, as that which lingers after a triboelectric shock.

"Welcome!" cried a jolly, rotund man with a red nose and orange hair. He stood behind the counter, clad in a green apron with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up as he passed his time wiping the inside of a glass with a raggedy cloth. "Can I get ya summfin' to drink? Tea, p'raps?"

Nyx blushed, hoping she hadn't been seen with her mouth agape. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Alright, commin' right up. Go ahead and take a seat, dear, make yourself at home," The fat man said pleasantly, waving a hand at her as he turned to collect a cup.

Nyx obeyed swiftly and sat down at an empty table which, like all of the others in the pub (which were also mostly empty), was round, wooden and home to four sturdy oak chairs. A small candle adorned the center, almost entirely enveloped by a bubble-shaped cup with frosted glass. She passed one last disconcerted hand over her skirt and then her sweater, frowning deeply and ultimately deciding that she simply must have dried off a while ago and not noticed on account of the cold outside.

The bartender came around to deliver Nyx's tea unto her table, affably bowing, "Name's Al, by the by. Should you need anything, don't hesitate to call me."

Nyx nodded as politely as she could in her lingering distress, "Thank you, Al. How much is it for the tea?"

"Why, it's on the house, of course!" Al exclaimed, sounding taken aback, "Shame on me if I should let a frail young thing such as yourself come in out of that kind of chill and then charge for a warm drink."

Nyx flushed, "That's very kind of you! I don't know how to thank you."

"No need, dear, it's my civic duty!"

A snort emanated from behind Nyx and she turned her head to examine the source. It was a young man with a mop of dark hair and round glasses, being the second of the mere seven patrons occupying Al's pub. A broad, toothy smile dominated the lower half of his face and in his hand was a large glass tankard of foaming, golden ale. "You really oughta break that habit of yours, Albert. You look for 'em any younger and you'll be charged for molesting children or summat. Maybe worse!"

Al swatted his large hand in the stranger's direction, rolling his eyes as he sauntered back to his post. "Wise-crackin' hooligan," he muttered.

Nyx watched as he went back to shining glasses to the point of spotlessness, gradually returning her attention to the stranger, brows furrowed. It wasn't long before he met gazes with her and silently raised his glass in salutations.

"Nice eyes, kitten," he said.

Nyx blushed and averted her eyes, which had always drawn a lamentable amount of unwanted attention, but held her head firmly in place, save for the miniscule rising of her chin into the air. "Nice glasses, four-eyes," she huffed.

"Oh-hoh, got a bit of mouth on _you_!" he laughed, standing slowly enough to produce a gritty mumble from his chair as it slid across the floor. He plopped into the seat next to Nyx's and took a gulp from his beverage, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I'm Charlus Potter, at your service".

Nyx frowned, saying in an unfriendly tone, "Charmed, I'm sure."

Charlus laughed, "Or surely not, judging by your refusal to introduce yourself."

"Hey," Nyx raised a finger as if to scold him, "I haven't _refused_ anything. I'm just not about to _volunteer_ anything, either."

Charlus nodded, "Suit yourself. Drunk as I am, I doubt I'd remember anyway."

Al cleared his throat from behind the counter, setting a bottle on the shelf, "You know as well as the rest of us that ain't nobody gonna get _that_ drunk off a pint o' butterbeer."

Charlus feigned a cough and adjusted his glasses, "Yes, well, I suppose not."

Nyx automatically wondered to herself if she had ever heard of such a thing as butterbeer. She raised a hand to hail the portly bartender's attention, "Could _I_ have a butterbeer, Al?" With a shift of her eyes, she added untruthfully, so as to deter any suspicions about her age, "It's been a while since I've had one."

"Absolutely, dear, but this one I'm afraid you'll have to pay for. It'll be, ah, one and six." Al, nodded to himself, procuring a tankard from beneath the counter and filling it to the brim with the enigmatic brew known as butterbeer.

It took a few moments for Nyx to register what he'd said, and then she lightened considerably in face. How could she pay him in money that would be neither printed, minted nor thought of for at least another sixty years? The answer was simple. She couldn't.

"Uhm," she gulped. "Surely you have change for a pound?"

"A _pound_?" Al asked incredulously, "No, dear, we don't take muggle money here."

Nyx furrowed her eyebrows and pouted. "Muggle money…" she repeated aloud, her inflections not quite pronounced enough to have made an inquiry. She had heard the word "muggle" before, enough times to recognize it with little effort, but had never thought to ask what it meant. Her mother used it to refer to essentially everyone, never to a particular identifiable group. She simply had no way of knowing what "muggle money" could be. So she had to ask.

"What's a muggle?"

There was silence. All of the gentle chatter ceased. All of the Leaky Cauldron's clientele had turned from their drinks, their companions, their bangers and mash, to gawk openly at her puzzled face.

Nyx could only speculate as to what exactly she had done wrong, but could never possibly guess correctly.

"Merlin's codpiece! She's a muggle!" Al cried suddenly. Just as soon as the words were out of his mouth, heads were spinning and Nyx had only the time to follow a white haired old woman's horrified gaze onto the northern-most wall to a picture frame encasing the portrait of a stout woman in Victorian dress who was, good heavens, _moving_.

Nyx allowed her mouth to open as widely physical limitations permitted, wringing her eyes and blinking in disbelief. "W-what the hell? Can't I have just ten minutes of normality today!?"

Before she could so much as ask for an explanation, she heard the locks click on the doors and on the window. The other customers drew sticks from their pockets and purses and pointed them at her, threatening to do something that she was sure she didn't want to see.

"Alert the Ministry already, Alfred!" one man bade, tremblingly. "She needs to be obliviated!"

"_Obliviated_!" cried Nyx. "Are you out of your _mind_!?"

"Yes, of course…!" Al went on, hurrying across the room and ducking behind his counter.

Nyx, with wide eyes, shot out of her seat and backed away from the people, who looked only equally as terrified as she was. And then, without warning, the entire pub filled with purple smoke and all visibility was lost. All that could still be seen was the grey light of the window permeating through the strange, violet cloud. Everyone began to shout in fear.

"The muggle is escaping!" They bemoaned.

Nyx turned to and fro, unsure of what to do. It was her chance to get away, but she knew of no way out. She was sure the door was locked. She was sure the window was jammed. And then she felt a hand wrap around her arm and tug her to the left, eliciting a gasp of fright. She batted a hand at whoever had grabbed her, immediately rewarded with an annoyed grunt. Her flailing arms were quickly restrained, but she was not deterred from squirming, struggling and cursing as much as she was able. He cries for help were lost in the jumble of louder voices. She kicked backwards and was sure she had hit someone's knee.

"OUCH!" Charlus' voice wailed, filling her ears. "Would you stop that? You don't want to lose your memories, do you!? We have to get out of here!"

Nyx immediately sobered. Someone was on her side. "But the door, it's—"

"The back way," Charlus interrupted, "To Diagon Alley."

'To _where_?"

Nyx hesitantly allowed Charlus to tug her along through the haze, which thinned by the time they had reached the storage space, where she could make out her accomplice's silhouette as he drew a stick—much like those with which she had been threatened—from his jacket pocket and tapped it on a series of red bricks, which then turned and rearranged themselves, allowing the light from the outside world to filter in and illuminate the store room.

Charlus herded her out and unleashed a pent up sigh of relief as the wall recovered its integrity behind them. "It's a good thing you didn't tell anybody your name. Once we get out of here, the Ministry won't be able to find you. You can't tell anybody about magic, though, understand?"

Nyx shook her head slowly, prying her hand from his. "_Magic_? That's what all of this was? You're telling me magic exists!? God, I've gone mad, haven't I? I'm delusional!"

"No, you're not!" Charlus raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm a wizard," he said, "and you, I think…"

Taking Nyx's hand again, and encasing it in both of his, he grinned. "You're a witch".


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Again, I am surprised at the abundance of kind words I've received from all of you. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Let me see if I can address a few of your questions:

_Ferdinand Sutcliff_ pointed out that the guests at the Leaky Cauldron could have used Petrificus Totallus. Yes, they most certainly could have. The only excuse I can think of is that muggles don't wander in too often and everyone was too panicked to think of it. :c

_Anonymous Echo_, who wrote a flatteringly thorough review, inquired about Tom's age. And the answer is yes, Tom is 14 at the point in history at which Nyx arrives in the first chapter. Also, you might think you've asked a rather offhand question, but believe it or not, it's very interesting as it pertains to this story. All I can say other than that is that you'll see what I mean later.

Anyway, I would like to apologize formally to those of you who read, who reviewed and who added this story to your alerts and favorites. It's coming up on two years since I last updated and I have to admit that my only real excuse for this is lack of interest.

Unfortunately, I can't promise that this chapter is any longer than the others. In fact, I'm quite sure it's about half as long. What I can promise, however, is that the story is almost totally planned out in my head and I have no more excuses not to write it down, so you're welcome to hound me for it.

Another thing is that unlike previous chapters, this here is _literally_ the first draft. It was written in one go, in under twenty minutes and hasn't been revised a single time. Ordinarily, I don't post anything until it's been revised at least five times.

**Chapter III:**

Something like a quarter of an hour had passed and as they walked together, Charlus and Nyx, the silence had consistently prevailed. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to ask. She just couldn't figure out how to do it. How would she phrase it? How would she inflect? Should she be angry? Hadn't she already made that mistake with Terrance? Could she really just say "What do you mean I'm a witch" and expect that the answer would solve anything?

"You've been terribly quiet," Charlus commented, his impressive patience finally beginning to abandon his confidence for reason. "How're those candies?"

"Every single one tastes like sea salt," Nyx replied.

Charlus laughed. "Somehow it figures that a girl like you would get a dud every time."

"I hate to think of why you would insinuate such a thing."

"The pretty ones are all unlucky."

"I could be your granddaughter."

"Eh?"

"Forget it. What do you mean saying I'm 'a witch'?"

Charlus cleared his throat and adjusted his coat, standing a bit straighter beside her. He had expected her to ask that question ages ago, not ages later, and felt he had to resettle into the right mind frame. He had to sound logical, reasonable. He had to make sure his voice didn't crack and that his face wasn't red. He couldn't falter for a second and show his discomfort, otherwise she wouldn't believe him. Muggles (and muggle-borns, he figured) were sensitive like that.

"There's a charm on all of the wizard establishments that wards muggles so that they won't come in. But you weren't affected by that charm at all. So there can only be two explanations: You must be a witch or a squib," he explained, attempting an instructive tone.

"What's a squib?" Nyx asked immediately.

"Someone who was born to at least one magical parent but can't do magic," he responded swiftly, having anticipated this question.

"Then who's to say I'm not one of those?"

"No one is to say that. Really, squibs are usually raised as initiates into the Wizarding World. They know about magic and get to choose to retire themselves to a muggle life or not. In other words, I think you would know about it… definitely."

"Are you a teacher or something?"

"What?"

Nyx cleared her throat. "Are you a teacher?" she repeated. "Is that your profession?"

Charlus laughed sheepishly. "No, but I will be. I hope. I've been working as an aide to Professor Dumbledore at Hogwarts. I sort of want to succeed him as Transfiguration Master."

"Trans-what?"

"Never mind!" Charlus dismissed, taking hold of Nyx's hand and rushing around a corner. "I'll take you to Ollivander's. Once you have a wand, I'll _teach_ you Transfiguration!"

And to Ollivander's they went, Nyx stumbling the whole distance behind the overly-excited Charlus, even as he dragged her over the threshold, slamming the door open with such force that the bell did not ring, but let out a dull series of clacks as it collided with its own suspender.

"What is this place?" Asked Nyx, narrowly evading a fender-bender with the conductor of their little train.

She was red in the face and doused in a mist of sweat, no doubt, and could hardly breathe as she examined the dimly lit establishment, and the open boxes, shattered vases, wilting flowers and discarded "wands" that adorned the aging floorboards. There was sort of a stifling sent of dust in the musky air, but Nyx somehow felt that she could live there forever if anyone would invite her. It reminded her so much of home.

"Someone there?" called a voice from elsewhere amid the jungle of shelves. A man emerged moments later, his head a wild fern of graying hair. "Can I help you?"

"Hello there, Mr. Ollivander. My friend here," Charlus indicated, placing a hand on Nyx's shoulder, "She needs a new wand. Her old one got lost on a trip to—to… Where was it again, kitten?"

"Africa."

"Yeah, Africa… _Af_rica!"

Nyx rolled her eyes, imparting her displeasure with Charlus' incompetence by the look on her face alone. But Charlus saw no reason he shouldn't be utterly scandalized. Who would go to Africa? Who and why? Did she _want_ people to ask her more questions? Did she _want_ to expose herself!

Mr. Ollivander nodded distractedly as he stepped around the counter and grabbed a box from the floor, opening it and placing its contents, a reddish-colored wand, in Nyx's hands. "Go ahead and give it a wave, dear."

Nyx quirked an eyebrow at this directive, looking questioningly between the proprietor of the business and his merchandise. She thought for a second of Cinderella's fairy godmother, brandishing her little magic wand at rats and pumpkins, flicking it and flourishing it. And, hesitantly, she copied this movement.

Nothing happened.

Again, Nyx waved the wand, this time with an enunciation to her movements. And, again, nothing happened. And by the time she was pummeling the empty air and hammering the wand against her empty palm as if it were a stubborn bottle of catsup, Ollivander snatched it from her.

"Not quite," he muttered, receding into the labyrinth of shelves for a second and returning with another wand, this one looking almost yellowish.

Nyx took it and again she waved, this time as unassumingly as she could. And for a third time, nothing happened. And again, this pattern repeated twelve times before Charlus began to doubt his deductions about Nyx.

"Curious…" Ollivander thought aloud. He began to circle Nyx, a hand massaging his chin thoughtfully. "Very curious indeed."

Nyx frowned at him, facing him perpetually, refusing to turn her back to her examiner once she had realized the suspicion with which he eyed her. He had only once encountered a case like this, where so many wands would emit no magical effect. Only once amid hundreds of transactions.

"I never do forget a customer," he informed, "but for some reason, I'm unsure if I have or have not sold to you. What is your name, young lady? Did you get your last wand here or not?"

"Oh please!" Charlus interrupted, "I can't believe you're still saying that. As old as you are, you're sure to have sold thousands of wands. There's no way you remember every single one."

Ollivander smiled humbly. "How's that eleven inch dragon heartstring oak? Still as shiny as ever, Mr. Potter?"

Charlus flushed.

"I really don't think we've met, sir," Nyx insisted. "I got my other wand in Australia with my father."

"Oh! Was it an Ackabee? I'm sure there's a good chance you had one made of Bunyip whiskers!" his entire veneer changed, Ollivander swerved suddenly to the left where he began to rummage through another shelf. "I'm sure I have one of those."

And soon, he encouragingly placed a third wand which was laced with veins of green in his customer's hands. Expecting the worst, Nyx raised the wand and waved it. This time, it was not nothing that happened at all.

The room filled with a soothing, sauna-like warmth and a minty scent that recalled to Nyx memories of her childhood when her mother would prescribe Vicks Vapor Rub for every runny nose. She certainly knew this one wasn't another failure.

"No, no, that's not quite right either…" Ollivander sighed, plugging his nose to defend from the smell.

"What!" Nyx cried, "I don't care if it's not quite right! I want this one!"

"My dear," Ollivander chuckled, smiling benignly, "If the shoe does not fit—"

"With all due respect, sir, you're no cordwainer! I won't take any other!"

Charlus elicited from within himself a reluctant sound of objection and scratched the back of his head. "Maybe you should listen to the man, kitten. After all, Bunyip whiskers… imports are usually expensive…"

"I insist!" Nyx exclaimed. "Really, I'll pay you back."

There was a silence as the men in the room considered the situation. Mr. Ollivander had certainly never seen a customer demand a wand that, truly, wasn't right. And Charlus, he was genuinely concerned about the cost of the wand. He really didn't have all that much money on him and he doubted his new friend had that much money with which to compensate him.

But eventually, Charlus caved, unable to withstand the resolve in her strange, mysterious, differently colored eyes.

"We'll take it."

"So be it…"


End file.
